Crimson Stains
by WeirdChick798465132
Summary: JeffMads AU. James Madison is just a normal scholar, trying to make it through life. Thomas is a serial killer, haunted by his tragic past. And he has his sights set on James. Warning: Mental illness, suicide, murder, memories of rape, so on. Very dark. Disclaimer: I do not own Hamilton.
1. Chapter 1

_14 September, 1876 - Andrew Lloyd, aged 22, blond hair, green eyes, crescent-shaped scar on the left shoulder blade,_ Thomas hummed softly as he wrote, taking in the sight in front of him. As his eyes came to the blood running down the floor, he tutted softly. He grabbed some pieces of clothing from his bin and threw them on the ground to soak up the mess. He watched with delight as the nice fabrics were dyed a deep shade of red. He had no use for the clothing anyway. He surely couldn't wear it. Andrew was much smaller than he was, as were all of his victims.

With the mess mostly cleaned, he picked up the smaller man's naked body. Andrew was limp in his arms as he carried him out of the backdoor of his small cottage. Thomas approached the river that roared only a kilometer or so from his home. With a familiar heave, he discarded the body into the river. He stared on in delight as the corpse disappeared down the river, being pulled under by the waves and marked only by the red surrounding it, which quickly began to spread.

He picked up the final shirt from his bin and used it to clean the blood off of his dagger, leaving it a gleaming silver colour. He began his usual routine, the one he had completed so many times before. He stripped his shirt, then picked up all of the clothes that littered his floor. He let the blood run down his bare chest. As he went outside, he dumped them all side by side to dry. Nobody would come this way; nobody ever did.

Thomas knew his little act was not going to last long. A killer that just disappears into thin air was not going to stump him forever. One day, they would find him. Maybe with the corpse of a young man on his floor or a pile of blood-drenched clothing in his arms. And they would kill him for his crimes. Which was perfectly fine.

Now, Thomas was not afraid of being caught. But he was not stupid. He knew what needed to be done. Living alone, secluded in the center of a forest away from the city, had taken its toll. He had a lot of free time. That meant time to think. And time to plot.

His system was a simple one. He would stick to the shadows of a nearby city until he found someone, a young man with a frail build. He would follow this young prey home and wait for him to fall asleep. As soon as he did, a window would be broken and Thomas would grab him by the throat, choking him until his world became black. Thomas would then throw him over his shoulder like he was nothing, grab an armful of the other's clothes, and head back to his hidden cottage.

As soon as his prey had woken up, he would be greeted warmly, given a portion of tea and stew, and offered a ride back to town. As soon as this offer was accepted… The young man's life would be tragically cut short. Thomas would strip his victim's corpse. Every one of them got a uniquely shaped and placed scar carved into them, which would be documented along with other traits.

He would use the victim's clothes to clean up their blood. After disposing of the body, he would dry the clothes, leaving the red stains. The clothes would then be burnt in a fire that Thomas would use for cooking the meat he hunted… Whether it was animal or human meat, who could tell?

Most of the bodies were never found. A few had, but not many. Rumors flew about the disappearances, everything from an angry spirit (courtesy of the religious and superstitious) to a serial killer (courtesy of the level headed). _Religion_ , Thomas silently sneered, _Ridiculous._

Thomas gasped as the voices started to creep back into his head. These evil voices… Thomas blamed them for what he had become. Yes, his rough past played a part, but these voices had turned him into a monster. These constant whispers, telling him to kill himself. Telling him to hurt others. Telling him to push others away, isolate himself.

Thomas fell against the wall, scooting down into a seated position on the floor. His hands flew to cover his ears, This only magnified him. They echoed, over and over again, and Thomas screamed. It wasn't very loud, though, as his voice was hoarse with unuse. He hadn't spoken a word in ten years. Before then, he had talked all the time. To himself, mostly. But, then his favorite hobby began. His voice was left behind with the old Thomas.

As the voices began to quiet, Thomas wiped the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. He hugged his knees to chest, panting softly. Sweat dripped from his forehead. Still, he stood. He grabbed his knife and tucked it into his pants. Time for dinner.

He shakily caught a few roaming rabbits. As he skinned them and threw them into the pot lazily, he once again wiped the blood off of his knife. He had done that a lot.

He ate alone, with only his thoughts to accompany him. Thomas's head was a frightening place to be, especially on a day like this. He was planning. _What should I look for in my next victim_? He thought, desperately wishing for any other thought. But he couldn't have any other thoughts. He had plans for tomorrow. Go out and find the next one… But who could that be?

 **A/N: I hope that didn't suck too badly. If you read my last fic, you certainly noticed that this one is much darker. If that isn't your cup of tea, you have been warned. Reviews would be nice. Should I continue or just delete and forget this?**


	2. Chapter 2

College was taxing for most, even for those as intelligent as James. The assignments, the teachers, and the limited time to do everything eventually got to people, whether it be sooner or later. James had nearly had enough of his philosophy class. His teacher was insufferable and the man made it seem as if he had it out for everyone. No one got a good grade in that class, no matter how hard they tried.

James gave up on trying to make sense of the project the teacher had assigned and closed his book. He thought that, maybe, he needed a change of scenery. Maybe he could go to the library- which was all the way across campus. He closed and locked the door behind him before making his way across the colorful, leaf covered walkway.

With the library in sight, James failed to notice that he had someone watching him. Not the typical professor or fellow student. Someone with much darker intentions.

Now, Thomas had seen James around before. He had even considered following him once or twice, only to be distracted by another before he could make up his mind. But now he knew. James was the one he wanted.

Thomas knew the name of every victim. It was the one thing that he would not kidnap them without knowing. He had learned James Madison's name several weeks earlier, when he had dropped a textbook with his name scribbled inside of the front cover.

That night, James readied himself for bed, completely unaware of the man hiding just one room away. He sighed softly, situating himself under the blanket. He laid his head on the pillow, eyes closed, and waited for sleep to come. He heard a small thump, then barely had time to open his eyes before a pair of strong hands were wrapped around his throat.

James gasped for air, trying to pry Thomas's hands off of him. He kept up this fight until his vision went black and his body stopped moving, as he had finally fallen asleep.

Thomas scooped the small man up in one arm and used the other to get some of his clothes, then cradled him as if he was a large baby.

James woke up the next morning, groaning softly as he sat up in the four poster bed. He rubbed his eyes as he took in the room he was in, finding it strangely unfamiliar.

He stood and made his way through a poorly made curtain, finding a small kitchen. The man stirring at a pot gave him chills.

"Where… Where am I?" James asked nervously.

The other man said nothing, but ladled some stew into a bowl and held it out to him.

James tried to push it away, shaking his head, but the bigger man insisted. He eventually took it and took a bite, hoping it was a kind of animal that he was eating. This man was seriously giving him a bad vibe. Seriously, nobody who breaks into people's houses to choke and kidnap them is good news.

Thomas ate out of his own bowl, saying nothing to his prisoner. He could sense the other man's discomfort. That uneasiness was the same aura that his other victims had emitted. It was almost comforting to Thomas.

James looked down at his bowl, biting his lip apprehensively. He felt a finger underneath his chin, gently pushing him to look up. He sat there, still as a statue as his eyes met Thomas's deadpan gaze.

Thomas cupped one side of the smaller man's face, using his thumb to gently stroke James's cheek. Thomas sighed breathily, pulling his hand away.

"What are you going to do to me?" James whispered, trying to sound braver than he was feeling. His strong, confident tone came out as merely a whimper.

Thomas didn't answer his question. He only took the empty bowl from James's hand and put it on top of his own, pushing them to the side.

With that being done, Thomas kneeled in front of the chair that James was seated in. He put his hands on either of James's shoulders, then slowly ran them down his chest, stopping at his hips.

James flinched away from him. "What are you doing?" He asked, sounding more like a scared child than the levelheaded man that he usually was. Then again, all level headedness tended to fly out the window when you had been kidnapped.

Thomas pulled away from James, once again ignoring his question. He stood and made his way to the other side of the room again. He pointed to that same shabby curtain.

James took this as a command to go back into that room. With how uncomfortable Thomas was making him, this was an order that James was glad to obey. He hurried back into that room, sitting down on the bed.

Thomas watched him leave, taking in the younger man's jittery body language. Really, he enjoyed it. As much as he didn't like to admit it, Thomas was obviously a sadist. He was a serial killer. He knew he couldn't deny it anymore. He liked seeing people uncomfortable or in pain. He also knew that that was absolutely sick, but he couldn't help it. He was so messed up from several things. That didn't excuse the behavior, yes, but it helped him feel a little better about committing such heinous acts.

 _17 September, 1876 - James Madison, aged 24, brown hair, blue eyes,_ Thomas began to write. He left his last spot blank, as he wasn't sure what kind of scar he should give him. He paused for a moment, then scratched out the '17'. He didn't know when he would dispose of this one. He thought it might just be more fun to keep him around for a little while.

 **A/N: Sorry this took so long. I was on vacation for a week and couldn't write for crap. From now on, I will try to update weekly. No promises, though. I'm awful at updating on time.**


	3. Chapter 3

James was officially miserable. Thomas was out, presumably hunting for their next meal. Honestly, James was terrified to question what species that meat would come from. Any person would urge him to run, saying that now was his chance and that he should get away and seek help. But that was the last thing on James's mind. The cottage had no windows and Thomas had barricaded the only door. James, being the weak little thing that he was, would never be able to push the door open. Even if he managed, Thomas would be back by the time that he succeeded.

So, there he was, sitting and staring at the wall. Not that he was particularly excited for Thomas to return, but boredom was the real killer. He sighed and stood. He went to the other side of the main room, pausing outside of the one room he had never been in. Thomas's private bedroom. His curiosity took over, and he set his hand on the cold doorknob. He hesitated for a moment, biting his lip as he made up his mind. With one last deep breath, he opened the door. He stepped inside and looked around.

The room was certainly nothing special. A simple bed, a decrepit dresser holding just a few outfits, along with a crummy desk holding a few books. James picked up the one off of the top and opened it, reading only a few lines before he closed it again. It was a log of Thomas's victims. He put it back down on the desk and picked up the next books. This one was covered in a thick layer of dust, as if it hadn't been touched in a long time. James wiped it off on his forearm and opened the cover. There he saw, written in neat cursive:

 _Thomas Jefferson, age 12_

James furrowed his eyebrows and began to read. What was inside that book shocked him. He began to shake as he quickly came to the end of the journal, not being able to stop once he had started. He couldn't believe it. He was reading the journal of the serial killer that had been terrorizing his town for _years_ , and he was discovering his life story!

James had to admit, it was a pretty dark story. Starting at age twelve, Thomas had had to live with his older brother after the death of his parents. His brother was definitely quite the sicko. The physical abuse started only six months after Thomas had moved in… The sexual abuse came not too long after. Every day it got worse and worse. At age seventeen, Thomas had finally snapped. That night, as the sick bastard slept, he killed him. That was his first murder. After that incident, Thomas had disappeared. Left his town and retreated into the woods.

Thomas had built the cabin himself, as well as stolen or made everything in it. With such a messed up mind, James almost couldn't blame him for being the way he was. After all, he had been through a lot. Nothing excused his senseless murdering, of course, but it was understandable to a degree. Who is to say James wouldn't have turned out the same way had he been forced to bear such a burden?

One thing that really caught James's attention was Thomas's constant mention of the 'voices in his head'. Throughout the whole journal, these voices were thrown onto almost every page. They talked to him, told him to kill, told him that that was all he was good for. Causing pain and destruction. James thought about such a thing happening to himself. He knew it would be enough to drive a man crazy, even without the trauma Thomas had had to endure.

James snapped out of his daze as he heard a dragging sound from outside. That meant that Thomas was back. He shut the book, set it back on the desk, and put the other book back on top of it. He hurried out of the room, making sure to shut the door behind him. He ran back to his own bedroom and plopped on his bed, then listened to Thomas enter the cottage. He listened to the sound of the other man cooking. He only went back to the main room as he heard Thomas rap his knuckles on the hard wooden counter, something that James had learned to understand as a summons.

James took in the aroma of the food, thankful that he didn't find any traces of rotting human flesh in the air. He barely managed to refrain from wolfing it down in one big gulp. Thomas only watched James and he slowly ate from his own bowl, as if he found the smaller man amusing on some level. He absentmindedly stirred as James finished his bowl, after which Thomas grabbed the ladle and refilled James's bowl. James only looked at him, sending a silent _Thank you_ as he began to chow down again.

Thomas threw his bowl onto the counter and left James to eat alone. He made his way to his room and changed into a lighter shirt, as it was rather stuffy in the cottage. He noticed nothing out of the ordinary as he threw the dirty shirt into his basket. He started to make his way to bed, casually glancing at his desk. Then he stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly walked over to his desk, picking up the small chuck on dust resting on the edge on the hardwood. He sighed softly as he let it fall on the floor, then knocked his victim log out of the way. He picked up his old journal, not failing to notice the lack of dust on the counter. He growled softly, throwing the journal back down on the desk and causing a small _thump_.

He pulled open his top drawer and began to swiftly dig through it.

 **A/N: Okay, this chapter came more easily than the last one did. Hope you enjoyed, mes cygnes.**


	4. Chapter 4

James had finished eating by the time that Thomas returned to the main room, quite obviously concealing something behind his back. James didn't like that one bit. He nervously chuckled at the older man. "I thought that you were going to go to bed…"

Thomas bent down to be level with the smaller man's sitting height. From behind his back, he pulled out a leather bound book. He sat it on James's lap, then looked at him expectantly.

He hadn't said anything, as per usual, but James understood what he had meant. He had been figured out, and Thomas was angry.

"I… I'm sorry," He choked out nervously.

Thomas pulled the journal off of James's lap, lazily throwing it onto the counter with a _thud_. He grabbed his wrist and pulled James to his feet, nearly throwing him onto his stomach on top of a table.

James stayed on the table, legs dangling over the edge, while Thomas came up behind him. He winced as he felt the first of many blows land on his back. It definitely wasn't a hand. This was leather.

As they continued to rain down, James's eyes started to tear up. "Thomas," He sobbed, "Please stop…" He wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

Thomas, using the little compassion that he was starting to have for the younger man, stopped and set the strap on the table. He placed a hand on James's shoulder and pulled him to stand. He wrapped his arms around James, being careful to avoid where he had been hit. He held him close, stroking his hair.

James cried into Thomas's chest. He didn't seem to notice that he was being held by a serial killer. Or care, honestly.

It took a moment for James to process what was going on. He quickly stepped back, giving Thomas one last glance before he hurried into his small sat on his bed, lying back to stare at the ceiling.

Thomas stomped into his own room, swiftly shoving the strap back into the proper drawer and placing the journal back where it belonged. Did he feel kinda bad? Sure. Maybe there was a better way he could have handled that, but inflicting pain is all he had ever really known. Did he regret it? Not exactly. He figured that James had deserved it.

The next day, as they sat around, Thomas began to scribble into another book. James knew that this was probably his current journal. He could understand why he wrote. Living the way Thomas did could drive a man crazy and James knew that writing could help, especially when it was all you had.

Thomas occasionally glanced up to look at James, then quickly looked back down. James sighed softly. "I really am sorry Thomas… I should have respected your privacy a bit more."

Thomas didn't reply. It's not like James had expected him to. He just kept writing.

 _I'm a real sick bastard, aren't I? I shouldn't feel like this. I shouldn't. Not about anyone. No man, no hostage, no victim. But I do. What's wrong with me? I'm sick of it! I can't take it any longer! I have to get rid of him. I have to. But… I can't. I've tried to do it. Multiple times. But I can never even convince myself to pick up the knife…_

 _Why is this happening to me? I've never had a problem like this. I've never had a feeling like this. This is pathetic. I am an apathetic, cold-hearted killer. Not a lovesick Romeo._

 _James Madison… I wish I had never come across you. You are my biggest mistake._

He cleared his throat, causing James to look up. That had never happened before.

"You are my biggest mistake, James." He spoke, his voice raspy with unuse. James's eyes widened.

"Thomas, what do you mean?" He whispered, "Kidnapping me?"

The older man didn't say anything. Instead, he stood, threw the journal at James, then walked out, disappearing into his bedroom.

James whimpered softly as he rubbed his now sore forehead. He watched Thomas walk away, then flipped the book open to the bookmarked page. As he read, his brain couldn't seem to process any of it. He had to read it multiple times, and his scholarly mind _still_ couldn't figure it out. 'Not a lovesick Romeo?' That sounded like Thomas was in love with him. But that was ridiculous… right? James certainly thought so. Thomas had said so himself. He was an 'apathetic, cold-blooded killer.' He couldn't love.

Meanwhile, Thomas whipped out another book. His victim log. He saw the newest line.

 _17 September 1876 - James Madison, age 24, brown hair, blue eyes,_

On top of the crossed out '17', he wrote '28'. Three days. Three days to mentally prepare himself for the task that he knew he would have to do. He would give James three more days.

The next day, James stayed in his room. Thomas was definitely not in the mood to see him. He sat on his bed for the entire day, even when meals came around. Sure, he probably could have come out to collect his food, but he instead ignored his growling stomach and toughed through it.

As the sun began to set, though James wouldn't know due to his lack of windows, Thomas appeared at the doorway to his room. James looked at him nervously.

Thomas simply beckoned him with his finger. James stood from his bed and made his way over to Thomas, making sure not to meet his eyes. Thomas took James by the wrist and nearly dragged him toward the front door before throwing it open and bringing him outside with him.

James looked around and inhaled deeply. He hadn't had a taste of fresh air since Thomas had trapped him. His moment didn't last long, as Thomas soon put a hand under his chin, tilted James's head up, and pressed his own lips to James's.

 **A/N: I cannot write for anything right now. I'm so sorry, cygnes.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I know, I know. It's been way too long. I'm sorry. School has started and my procrastination has been taking over nearly everything. And one class, in particular, is about to kill my GPA. Yay for AP European History!** :(

 **Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and I'll try not to let the next one take so long to get out.**

James awoke early in the morning to the sound of creaking with an occasional soft thump. He heard Thomas's footsteps in the main room as he got up. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. In the middle of the floor was a man tied to a chair. His was struggling against his bonds, crying out as the tight ropes bit into his wrists.

Thomas was standing on the other side of the room, watching the stranger's struggle. James could only watch as Thomas made his way over to the unfamiliar man, dagger in hand. James glanced at the table, taking in the sight of the newest entry. Blake Wembley. His eyes couldn't help but run over the entry above Blake's name as well. His own name was there. And, according to that date, he had two days to live.

James looked back at Thomas, who was now standing right behind Blake, gathering the man's shoulder-length brunette hair in his hand. Blake trembled in fear, not making a sound. Thomas raised his dagger, then sliced Blake's hair off. He let the hair fall to the ground, smoothing out Blake's choppy new haircut.

"Thomas…" James nearly whimpered, "What are you doing?"

Thomas didn't reply, but it was not like James had expected him to. He simply ran the side of the blade up Blake's cheek, stripping the skin of the stubble that had grown. A small drop of blood oozed from a prick; James could only stare at it as it ran down the other man's chin and became a stain on his white blouse.

Suddenly, Thomas stepped back. Both of the others watched him as he gestured for James to come to him. James obeyed hesitantly. He apprehensively let Thomas place the blade in his hand and wrap his fingers around the handle. Thomas's own hand guided James's back to Blake as he made James just barely drag the warm metal over the other's throat with just shy of the force needed to draw blood.

James pulled back under Thomas's navigation. Both James and Blake had their eyes squeezed tightly shut as they trembled. James barely had time to take a breath before he felt his own arm being thrown forward and a gush of warm liquid spill everywhere. And the sound… James felt sick.

Thomas let go of James to disinterestedly let his newest victim die. As soon as Blake had stopped writhing in his bonds, Thomas untied him. He made quick work of the blood-soaked clothes until the fresh corpse was completely naked. He picked up his dagger, which was then laying on the floor, once again. Swiftly, he carved a shallow 'T' just below his navel. Finally and without the slightest flinch, he picked up the body and brought it outside to dispose of it.

James could only throw up as Thomas used the new stack of clothes to soak up the blood, then took them outside to meet the same fate as their old owner.

James felt a hand resting firmly on his back. He looked up to see Thomas dourly staring down at him.

The look didn't last long, as Thomas soon abandoned it to scribble down the scar in his log.

James wiped his mouth on his sleeve and gagged again. He had known that Thomas was ruthless, but actually seeing him in action was much worse than he could have imagined.

He wiped his eyes on his other sleeve. "Kill me, Thomas…" He whimpered pathetically. "Please… I don't want this anymore. End it."

As if he were about to give into James's begging, Thomas wrapped his hand around James's throat, quickly pinning him against the wall. James gasped desperately as spots began to dance across his vision before Thomas removed his hand and let him fall to the ground.

James only panted softly for a moment before himself back to his feet. As soon as he did, the side of his head met Thomas's elbow, leaving a throbbing pain. He whined and rubbed his head.

Thomas took him by the arm, definitely digging his fingers in hard enough to bruise him, He dragged him into James's bedroom, nearly tossing him onto the bed before storming out.

James couldn't move (or sleep, for that matter) all night. He just lied on his bed and waited to hear the hooting of owls or the chirping of crickets.

He snuck out of his room and made his way to Thomas's room. He opened the door as quietly as he could and ducked behind the desk, crouching in case Thomas woke up. He waited for several minutes before reaching over and taking one of Thomas's knives from the desk.

With the knife in his grasp, he went back to his own room. He stopped for a moment to ponder if he could make a run for it now, but he knew that the front door was very loud by design and that Thomas was a light sleeper. With how out of shape he was and how fast Thomas was, it was unlikely that he would get far.

He lied back down. He thought about possibly taking on Thomas, but he wasn't sure that he would be able to. Sighing, he tucked the knife under his pillow and tossed and turned for the rest of the night.


End file.
